On the Juxtaposition Between the Juvenile and Infinitesimal

When the dark star crashes,
I will be left to tarry here
with no one to taste but you.

I am going crazy right before your eyes,
but you ignore it and pretend like daylight
fills you up, both heart and soul.

The day will come when worms will eat your eyes
and delightful desserts will be their only
next goal, and then we will remain lovers.

A guitar wail plays in the distance, beautiful but lonely,
the only words you speak, as your tongue was long ago
self-removed, and you cry a silent tear.

There has been no sound in these hills but the scutter
and scuttle of rats for so long that it's no wonder that
everyone cries at the sound of beautiful music.

I have known the survivors of long bouts with the cough
and with the whoop and the TB. I have known them well enough,
have seen then collapse in the sorrowful lung for one another.

Never again, will I suppress my anxiety for the love of youth,
you will never again repay me for the debts of kindness
bespoken to you, or bespoiled of your character.

A knife plunges deep into the heart of madness and renders
even it confused as Joseph Conrad and Patrick Moore hold hands
and do the dance of those obsessed with the lightness of humanity.

Unfold your presence to me, flit about with electric energy,
dance the rafters in an exquisite trance of omnipresence,
tell me there is "something out there, something fantastic."

Light the skies with your mind, and tell the world you know it,
meanwhile, I will sit idly by holding my own hands, folded
comfortably in my lap, laughing to myself at your naivete.

For you are a fool, and if ever the world reflected your silly
sense of self, we'd all leave ourselves at the doormat and bring
only the chaos of our spiritual energies to the orgies we create.